Exploring the Trans-Canadian Highway
by Malicei
Summary: So this happened. We were looking at maps. Transguy!Canada/America. Human AU. In which one Matthew Williams is an adorkably weird passive-aggressive troll, Alfred is a wannabe hero and flawed characters and LGBT themes abound!
1. Welcome to Canada! (stay a while?)

Well. Today was the day. Matt just wanted to curl up into a ball, tunnel under his covers and die.

No one would find his body anyway until his landlady came around to complain that he'd missed this month's rental payment again. He bet no one would even complain about the smell, with the general air quality in his apartment. Which was horrendous. Really, it already smelt like something had died in here. That would just be his luck. Its ghost would probably complain that Matt was taking over its territory and then Matt would get evicted anyway even though he'd be dead.

Which he'd probably end up being at the rate he was starting to suffocate.

He peeked out from under his giant maple leaf covers. Yep, even his lampshade was judging him, cold and silent.

"Should I get up today?" he whispered to his lampshade.

His lampshade didn't deign to reply, probably deeming him too insignificant to answer to.

"I love you lampshade. Why won't you talk to me?"

Silence.

_Fucking hell,_ he thought._ My best friend is a bloody inanimate object._ He **really** needed to get out more. Well, there was the issue of whether or not he should get up solved.

Getting up (or rather, stumbling out of bed like he was half drunk), he somehow made his way to his closet. There, he found himself automatically reaching for his baggy hoodies before realising that he didn't need to. Not today! Beaming, he practically skipped to the front door in anticipation, he was that excited. A fucking bomb could hit the rest of the apartment and he wouldn't have noticed.

_"Why would you __**do**__ this to us?!"_

_Matt's shoulders shook as he looked up the woman who had given birth to him, had fed him, played with him, __**cared**__ for him._

_"I'm...I'msorry-"_

_She sobbed, glaring at him. "If you were truly sorry, why would you take away our little girl?!"_

_He winced, biting his lip hard enough to draw blood from the sheer anxiety of the situation._

_"Mother, I'm sorry, but you never __**had**__ a daughter- "_

_"WHAT HAVE YOU __**DONE**__ TO MATILDA?!"_

_All he could hear was shouting and then, suddenly the world became overwhelming, black spots dancing over his vision as he felt her fingernails digging into his throat._

_He screamed in agony._

_"MOTHER, MOTHER, __**STOP**__! Gah- I- can't - __**breathe!**__"_

_She threw him across the room. He gasped, feeling a rib cut through his skin and looked up to see the face of the woman who had promised to love him no matter what._

_"I never want to see you again. __**You are not my child,**__" she said, her tone almost eerily calm. "__**Don't think I won't kill you if you come back.**__"_

_._

_Matt wouldn't speak for an entire month after that._

There! He bent down to pick up his parcel, for a_ Mr Matthew Motherfucking Williams Baby!_

And so that was he ended up staring at a complete stranger's crotch in his pyjamas as he straightened up.

Turning red immediately (_curse his ancestors' genetic predisposition for pale skin!_), he managed to stammer out a "Oh shitmotherfuckingtabernak I didn't see you there I'msorryI'msorry I swear I wasn't staring at your crotch so sorry again can I make it up to you in any way-"

The stranger laughed. God, Matt could just wither up and crumble to dust just now. Why did he have to make such an idiot in front of what could be the most attractive male model alive? He was being laughed at, he knew he shouldn't have gotten up this morning-

"Hey, hey, don't worry about it!"

What. Mr I-Am-Wasting-My-Life-Not-Being-A-Supermodel was smiling at him. _He had an arm around Matt's shoulders_. WHAT. ButButBut wasn't that what close friends and lovers did-

"You looked like you were in your own little world, I didn't want to interrupt. I liked the skipping, it was cute!"

_...What._ Was he still dreaming? Maybe he'd died and gone to some horrible mockery of heaven. He would've hoped he wouldn't be as socially inept as he usually was AS A MOTHERFLUFFING DEAD PERSON but it made sense that with how life loved to screw him over, death would too.

"Uhhh, are you okay? Your eyes are all glazed and stuff..."

Fuck it. He was dead, he figured it didn't exactly matter if he had the social skills of a rock. He might as well have a bit of fun. He smiled, shyly.

"Sorry about that," he began softy, using his patented 'I'm a sweet lovely innocent darling who will rouse your protective instincts even though I could kick your ass in my sleep' voice. "Sometimes I get these black outs, y'know?" Which was true. Just not right now. "And I need to sit down for a bit with someone who'll make sure that I'm okay and won't like, die on them. But everyone's out at the moment, so I'm alone." He made sure to frown thoughtfully and turn on his maximum sparkle level puppy dog eyes.

Sure enough, he took the bait.

"Oh my _god_, that is totally not safe! You are going right in and sitting down and let me make sure you're okay, dude!" he said, herding Matt inside and gently pushing him down onto Matt's couch, before finding and throwing Matt's old baby blanket onto him. Ah, so that's where his favourite polar bear toy went. He discreetly made sure Mr Supermodel had his back turned before he snuggled Kumajiro. Kumajiro had always been there for him. Kumajiro had been his childhood best friend. Kumajiro knew Matt like nobody else did, right?

_"Who?"_ he could almost imagine the toy saying. He snorted. That would be right.

Peering up from the pile of fluff, Matt just watched, bewildered, as he took over his apartment. Well. This was interesting. He hadn't expected the guy to go so far as to try and make some coffee for him. He looked downright domestic, like he was meant to be a part of Matt's apartment. Also, dayum, that _ass_.

Ah, Mr Supermodel was turning around now. Daaaayum, that face was just as fine.

"So, uh..."

"Matt."

"Matt! So, Matt, how do you take your coffee?"

"Milk, sugar and with a hot guy?" Matt said before his mind caught up with his mouth. Oh, _goddammit_. He wanted a refund on his brain to mouth filter.

Mr Supermodel went red. It should be a illegal to be that adorable, Matt thought.

"At least buy me dinner first, sweetheart," Mr Supermodel said, winking. Fuck, he was beating Matt at his own game.

"Really?" Matt blurted out.

Holyshit. Mr Supermodel was checking _him_ out now.

"Sure, you're cute enough and that shy thing's pretty adorable, y'know?"

Being dead was surprisingly good. If he'd known it'd be this great he probably would've gone through with his plans to off himself instead of watching his life crash around him, he thought darkly.

"...Huh?"

Matt did not just say that last bit out loud. _He did, didn't he._

"_Hey, Matt,_" Mr Supermodel said softly, hovering over him, as if Matt was a small rabbit ready to dart away at any second should he make the wrong move. "You're amazing and perfect just the way you are and I'm not really sure why you think you'd have to die for this to be happening? Like, you don't look like a zombie to me which is good because then I'd probably have to put you down and stuff like in the movies which would be bad 'cause you're too adorable to do that to-"

Matt raised an eyebrow, amused by his little tirade and also secretly a tiny bit touched because as cheesy as it was, Matt had never actually been given the 'Please don't kill yourself you're amazing asdfghjkl" speech. So far he'd only had four blank 'why the hell would you think that?!' faces, two 'yeahhh...I didn't sign up for this I'm leaving"s, thirteen 'you do that I'll grab the popcorn"s and seven extremely creative death threats (and one offer to help him through to hell). He'd passed on that one, telling them he owned controlling stocks in hell and could get a personal limo there any time. The next thing he knew, there were three church groups picketing in front of his apartment, denouncing him as the spawn of Satan.

"Uh-? Wait did I do something wrong? "

That was the most adorably clueless puppy dog eyes face Matt had ever seen. He probably should explain, though, before Mr Supermodel got real concerned and stuff. Although it was very cute and novel, how worried he was getting for Matt's sake.

"I'm okay now," he said, in that whispery voice of his. "It was a while ago, I'd just lost my home and all my family and friends-"

He was interrupted by a tight hug.

"Oh,_ dude_. That's horrible. No one should have to go through that alone. _That's it,_ I'm adopting you as my own."

Okayyy, he hadn't expected this. Not like he was complaining though. Maybe he wasn't so hopeless after all.

.

...

...Although he still hadn't gotten his package.

_...Goddammit._


	2. Matthew decides Alfred is alright

So what if he looked stupidly, ridiculously, cheesily happy then? He was taking this opportunity to talk to Mr Supermodel while he could. Which reminded him…

"So, uh. I, um, don't know your name?" Matt squeaked. "You must think I'm really awkward and a terrible host, I'm sorry."

Mr Supermodel huffed in honest disbelief. "Are you really apologising for like, almost dying?" he asked, with honest concern which made Matt feel like a huge asshole for taking advantage of him. Matt opened his mouth to reply when Mr Supermodel said, "Wait, no, don't answer that. Coffee's ready!"

_Uhhh. What?_ Matt blinked, watching that fabulous ass hustle around the kitchen as Matt settled into his little cocoon of blanket and fluff. Mr Supermodel turned around, holding Matt's favourite polar bear shaped mug and grinning in a way that Matt would have almost called cunning, if the expression was on anyone else. As it was, he just looked like the human equivalent of a giant puppy who'd managed to sneak his way into the dog food.

He presented the mug proudly to Matt.

"_Hi, my name is Alfred F. Jones and I'll be your server today!_"

That alone would have left Matt speechless and red as a lobster, but then Alfred had to lean into Matt's ear and whisper, conspiratorially, "And no, the F does not stand for Fucking. _Although I can do that too, if you like_." He winked.

Matt might or might not have let out a tiny squeak. Alfred laughed at that, ruffling Matt's hair good-naturedly, _the fucker_, and yet Matt couldn't help but feel like he'd suddenly plummeted beyond the point of no return when it came to one Alfred F. Jones.

Which was a huge feat considering he'd only known him for ten minutes.

He raised an eyebrow at Alfred, taking his mug and hiding his smile behind it. "Right, then. So, Alfred. What brings you here to my shitty apartment anyway? Were you looking for one of my neighbours? I figured someone as attractive as you wouldn't just randomly stick around in hallways to pick up a loser like me. "

Matt didn't figure someone as forward as Alfred to be the sort of person who would get flustered at that. But well, obviously he could be wrong._Fuck_. Alfred was staring at him now. He'd probably messed up everything, hadn't he? But wait, if he got flustered, would that mean he had been camping out in the halls to pounce on unsuspecting idiots like Matt?

…

…Maybe Alfred was a serial killer.

Shit. _Shitshitshit_. What if he was a really good actor who would've waited til Matt fell asleep before stabbing him thirty-seven times and chopping him up to turn into Matt-soup? _What if he was like one of the psycho murderers on T.V. who skinned their victims and tanned them to turn into coats or lampshade coverings-_

"You think of yourself as a loser? …Wait, you think I'm attractive?"

_Uhhhhh_. Matthew Williams, eloquent as always. Didn't they already go over this? "Yes to both?"

"Well, you're only going to be able to say yes to the last bit. Because I'm a hero, and not only are heroes super hot and ripped," Alfred stuck a pose at that and Matt had to struggle to keep from bursting out laughing as Alfred continued. "We save people."

Matt turned sharply at his sudden serious change in tone. Alfred continued, oblivious. "Everyone deserves to have a chance to be saved, even if they don't think they're worth it. And you _are_ worth it, Matt, everyone is worth something. Even if people don't think they need to be saved, it's still a hero's responsibility to back 'em up. 'Cuz sometimes even the best of us get tired of fighting alone."

...And what could Matt say to _that_? Matt wished he could be as innocently idealistic in things always working out. Alfred really was a big, darling, overgrown puppy dog. As it was, he didn't know what to say, because how could he just tell those big baby blue eyes that heroes couldn't save everyone?

Especially not people like Matt. He'd given up on anyone really being able to help long ago, but it was nice to have someone who cared nevertheless. He buried his face into Kumajiro.

"I. _Um_. You didn't answer my question about what you were doing here."

Alfred's mouth curved down slightly at Matt's admittedly poor attempt at misdirection, but didn't call him out on it.

"...Got lost." Alfred said, easily.

…_Really. Really, now._

"Like, so I just came into Canada right? Booked a hotel and stuff. And I looked for ages trying to find it on the map, but _look_!" Alfred waved a crumpled map in front of Matt's face. "Nothing! _Nada_! So what can I do, apart from run around seeing if I could just stumble upon it?"

Matt took the map before realising the problem a split second later.

"_This is a map of the U.S_." he stated, flatly.

"Yeah, duh." Alfred was looking at Matt like Matt was the one being slow.

"We're in _Canada_. C – A – N – A – D – A."

Alfred's forehead scrunched up.

"Yeahhhhh. I can spell. But where is it?" He couldn't really be this dumb. Could he? He was super cute but even Matt had some standards, like being smarter than a five year old.

"It won't be on this map."

"Huh-Oh! So it's not a state?"

"_**No.**_"

"Right, whoops, I have a map of all the American cities –"

Alfred gave a bark of laughter at Matt's 'Are-you-fucking-kidding-me' look.

"Oh,_ man_, you're fucking adorable and I mean that in a good way." He smiled fondly as Matt's face decided to emulate an expression more typically associated with that of a deer caught in the headlights. "You're not the only one who can play up the 'I'm an innocent baby-face who doesn't understand what's going on' act. But I really am shit at geography, so you might want to help me find my way to the hotel I was looking for before I end up sleeping on the streets like a hobo."

Alfred was officially Matt's new favourite person. It wasn't everyday someone got one over him._ Not after he'd publicly "came out", so to speak._

"Sure, I can help."

Matt smiled, and it met his eyes.

It was four hours later when Matt came back to his abandoned coffee mug that Matt realised he'd actually managed to forget about his package altogether because of a certain distracting blond who'd stolen away his morning before he knew it.

The package was still there in front of his door where he'd dropped it. Matt cradled it gently before setting it down onto his kitchen table. He stroked the plain brown packaging, before realising that he probably looked like an idiot. Then he realised he didn't really care, since he was so excited.

Ripping the packaging open, he beamed as he set eyes on his new chest binder. He'd been lucky so far in that sports bras had been enough to hide the fact he had boobs when Alfred had hugged him, but it wasn't that reliable. Humming as he got dressed and admiring how _right_ he felt with his binder, he headed out as he mentally prepared himself for the shithole he knew would be the rest of his day.

Eh. Couldn't be that bad. Meeting Alfred cancelled out pretty much any shit that wasn't as bad as "everyone's dead, you're out of a job again and also the ghost evicted you because you're dead too."

_Yeah_, he thought as he sipped his cold coffee,_ today'll be alright_.


	3. Life rule 1 - Avoid Arthur's Cooking

"Matthew."

"Yes?"

"It's _2pm_."

Matt made himself open his eyes wider in pseudo-innocence, cocking his head to the side. He pretended to be fascinated by his Boss' fancy metal name plate proudly proclaiming in ridiculous cursive that he was facing the likes of _Sir Arthur Kirkland, Owner and Quite Possibly Overlord Of All Creation_. He loved that damn nameplate. His boss and temporary foster parent might be "a right moody git" in his own words, but he had a wicked sense of humour most didn't see.

"Yup." Matt said, finally.

Arthur raised an eyebrow, frowning at him.

"Look, Matthew, I'm well aware that you have been having a rough time lately, but you were meant to be here _four hours ago_." He sighed and closed his eyes in frustration. "Is there anything I should know about? Are your parents harassing you again? Do I need to get the police involved?"

Matt rushed to blurt out "No! Definitely not. My family have decided to deny I ever existed, so you don't need to worry about that." He glanced down guiltily at his shoes, seeing only worry in Arthur's eyes.

"I'm sorry." Matt practically whispered._ I'm sorry I can't tell you, I don't want you to get involved in this. I don't want you to get hurt for my sake, Arthur._

Arthur's piercing green eyes searched him, and Matt shrunk down in his chair.

"Alright," Arthur said at last. "Can you take Yao's shift? Yao's been covering for you and looks like the next customer that asks if Yao's a man or a lady will literally get murdered."

Matt cringed. Yao was their cook, a right beautiful specimen of humanity who just so happened to not identify within the gender binary. As such, Yao was not supposed to be up the front as a waiter like Matt because there would always be one or two bigoted, racist or otherwise idiotic customer who disapproved of Yao's general existence.

""Ah," Matt said, because _he was the epitome of eloquence_._ "_ I suppose I'll get to it then." he mumbled as he turned to leave.

"Yes, that would be best, Matthew." Arthur started to arrange his files before suddenly pausing and calling out behind Matt. "And take care of yourself!"

And _didn't that make you feel like the worst kind of bastard when you got people all worried you'd end up dead when actually, all Matt had been doing was being distracted by a nice bit of __**booty**_. Well, Alfred was a damn hot piece of booty. But even a social outcast like Matt knew he was being difficult to work with despite all his good intentions - because _somehow_, _**somehow**_, he had managed to get it into his little head that maybe he was allowed to have a little bit of happiness. And there was where Matt had gone wrong.

It was idiotic of Matt to think something as selfish as his desire to spend time with Alfred might have been worth not doing his duties. What kind of fucking ungrateful bastard _was_ he? Arthur didn't deserve this kind of treatment when he'd saved Matt from the streets and given him a job, food, shelter and the only sort of awkward care Arthur knew how to give.

People like Matt didn't deserve good things.

Knowing Mr Kirkland wouldn't hear him, Matt murmured, "I can't make you any promises. I'm sorry."

Matt really should've come in earlier. To arrive into the kitchen only to find it looking like a bio-hazard of a bomb had hit was discouraging, to say the - _God, had Arthur been __**cooking?**_ Yeah, Yao had been up front instead of cooking since they'd been short staffed _(this is all your fault, Matt, we're disappointed in your Matt, you have responsibilities- NO! SHUT UP!_) but surely they knew better than to resort to such drastic resorts?

Apparently not.

Were those balls of ash in the oven supposed to look like they could be classified as a war crime to feed to people?-

"MATT! How come you are not in on time today?!"

Startled, Matt spun around to see an incredibly flustered looking Yao entering the kitchen behind a giant stack of dirty plates, which Yao promptly dumped on the floor before sending a murderous look his way. Matt cringed, biting his lip and physically withdrawing into himself (like a stupid, overgrown turtle) in shame.

"Arthur tried cooking but he poison all my customers and I had to make sure the police are not coming and stop people from suing us!" Yao wailed.

"I'm…I'm sorry." was all that Matt could manage in reply. And Matt genuinely _was_, because as much of a secret passive-aggressive asshole he could be on his bad days, nobody deserved to face the wrath of Arthur's 'cooking'. He loved the bloke as the awkwardly snarky fatherly figure he was, but Arthur's attempts at cooking had often ended with Matt in the emergency room with an extreme case of food poisoning.

Yao paused for a second before seeming to deflate, presumably taking in his sincerity.

"_Aiyaaaaa_. You are too hard to be mad at, I feel like a bad person when I yell at you." Yao huffed, using chopsticks to carefully pick up a sickly green looking…thing, before waving it threateningly in front of Matt. "But go work now before I throw this at you! We are _very_ behind orders, _and I think the man at table five is a food critic_."

Oh, _shit_. Matt paled. Of all the days a critic had to come in, it was today? Arthur's little English-Chinese cultural blend café was unfortunately not very well known or popular, and a bad review would probably mean a death sentence with how things were going right now.

…Well, with what terrible food and delivery times would help ruin, good service could hopefully help in minimising damage.

Matt had some fucking good manners, if nothing else.

Peering carefully round the corner wasn't being a coward, it was staking out the situation. _Really_.

From Matt's temporary sanctuary, he could only make out the back of the customer at table five. _The well-dressed gentleman in the fashionable suit definitely looked like he earnt enough to possibly be one of those pretentious famous food critics,_ Matt thought enviously. He was clearly becoming impatient, and well, _might as well face his imminent doom with some dignity._

Softy, as ninja-like as he could manage, he carefully approached the customer from behind. Ah, the few joys of the well-ignored.

"We're terribly sorry for the wait, how may I help you, sir?" This, Matt noted, grimly satisfied, he had managed to make sound sincere despite secretly feeling like his insides would empty themselves out on the customer with anxiety.

He resisted the half strangled, desperate laughter which threatened to give him away with the way the poor bloke jumped.

"_**Merde!**_" the man breathed almost unconsciously as he turned to face Matt, and all Matt could think was _oh shit, indeed._


	4. Matt is very unprofessional

"…_Francis?_!"

The believed food critic, Matt was 99.99% certain, was Matt's French uncle, Francis Bonnefoy. The 'elegant' chin length blond hair, 'sexy stubble', fashionable taste and love of fine dining? All pointed to the rather startling coincidence of reuniting with the man who had helped raised him through childhood.

A man, who he had believed _dead_.

_Very, extremely, body has probably melted_ _**dead **_after the high security French prison which Francis had been staying in had exploded quite dramatically. True, Francis had been known for disappearing frequently only to re-emerge with an entirely new name, credit card, passport and special lady/man (_"fuck-friend", Francis had uncharacteristically called them quite crudely on one particularly drunk occasion._)

-But, but, the concrete had_ liquefied_! It was hardly surprising the conclusion he'd come to.

Too bad he'd already been declared dead when they re-evaluated Francis' case in court and found that Francis had not, in fact, been the rapist (because he'd been elsewhere filming a fully consensual, if extremely kinky, sex video.) Maybe Matt would still have had some family who cared and looked after him, then. He'd been living with Francis after his parents had kicked him out, but when the scandal had broken, Francis had been deemed an 'unfit guardian'.

Francis, the uncle whom Matt had called 'Papa'.

Francis, who taught Matt French as a small child and later, French swears and dirty, hilarious jokes.

Francis, who was openly, flamboyantly, pansexual, who cross-dressed for fun and accepted the fact that the person formerly known as Matilda was now a Matthew.

Francis, the romantic who believed in free love – freely given, freely taken – yet was called a _rapist_ (or worse was, _pedophile_) and given a guilty sentence despite his innocence.

…_Francis, who gave up custody for Matt, as one of the terms for a more lenient sentencing._

Of course Matt had mixed feelings, seeing a ghost from a past he'd tried his best to leave behind. With Francis believed dead, Matt had _nothing_. Francis had not left a will behind, and so all of Francis' possession were sold off, and the money went to places that was basically anywhere but to Matt.

So when Arthur had stepped forward, Matt had been surprised.

_Matt was just trying his best just to hide the fact that he was crying. Francis' court case had finished up although it was a bit too late for it to have mattered to Francis._

_Poor, falsely accused Francis._

_He'd seen the older man who slowed down as he passed Matt on the way out, hesitant to comfort a complete stranger but too nice to simply pretend to ignore him (as the others had.)_

"_W-would you like a tissue?" the man asked in a stereotypically English display of awkwardness. Stiff upper lip and all that – maybe he was going to tell Matt to __**please leave because you're ruining the room with your presence and could you please go and have your little mess of a breakdown elsewhere, because the tears are leaving a stain on the benches and it's very unsightly. Ta.**_

"…_Thank you. Sorry about all this." Matt accepted the offering and gestured vaguely at his blotchy face, red and wet from crying. The man nods, but doesn't say anything, tactfully looking away._

_About ten seconds passed, with Matt losing himself to grief as the man shuffled around on the spot, determinedly trying to be polite and not stare._

_The guy didn't look like he would be willing to leave, judging by the honest concern on his face. Touching, and also slightly funny with the way he was hovering like an awkward helicopter without the slightest clue on how to salvage the natural disaster that was Matt._

_No one said his analogies were good, okay._

_Matt managed a small but genuine smile. "I'm Matt. Matthew Williams. You are?"_

_The man looked up a little too quickly, as if he'd been waiting for a chance to talk but unsure about whether it would be welcomed. "Ah. Pardon my manners. Arthur Kirkland, please call me Arthur. I was on the jury."_

_Arthur paused as he struggled to decide whether he should say something. He took a deep breath in, catching Matt's attention._

"_Please, honestly answer me. Are you alright?"_

Matthew's startled exclamation was cut short when a rose scented hand suddenly covered his mouth, muffling him.

"_Shh!_ Not so loud." Francis hissed, but Matt could see that Francis was genuinely happy to see him. He lowered his voice to barely more than a whisper. "You don't know me. When we meet later at the park opposite the street, it is because you wanted to get some fresh air and bump into me as I enjoy taking photographs of the beauty in this world. _Okay?"_

Matt barely stifled his laughter (_'beauty of this world' indeed. Francis always did like checking out the joggers.)_ He visibly composed himself, for Francis' sake. "I'm sorry. I thought you were someone I knew." he said, instead.

"It is fine." Francis replied, looking charming but like they've never met before. It hurt Matt's heart a bit to see. "I was wondering if the entrée was done yet. It has been thirty minutes, but I notice you have been understaffed, so I understand."

_Totally not Matt's fault. Nope. 'Course not. Cough, cough_. He looked away in embarrassment.

He was turning red with guilt, Matt just knew it. Matt knew Francis knew. Francis knew Matt knew Francis knew.

Francis always knew when Matt was feeling guilty, mostly because of all the trouble Matt had gotten into as a kid (_'little brat', Francis called him._)

Matt made the mistake of looking back at Francis, who is grinning unapologetically. "How unprofessional, Mr Waiter. Would it be you who is the reason why the poor restaurant has been understaffed?" Francis teased.

"…_Maybe."_

"Yes, you mean?" The grin only widened.

"…Yes."

"Naughty boy, late to work. What was so distracting that you could not wait?" Francis' tone sounded like he was flirting madly with Matt to everyone else in the café, but Matt knew Francis well enough to understand that Francis was genuinely curious. Francis _know_s Matt hates disappointing people.

"I…met a guy. He's cute and interested and I don't know why but I feel like I have a chance with him?"

The look which had been in Francis' eyes (charming, pleasant but said _I don't know you_) disappeared and was replaced with the warmth Matt remembered as a child. When he was still loved.

"Did you, now?" Francis said softly, smiling. "He must be a very lucky man, to have your affections. I hope he makes you happy. If not, he shall have to deal with me, and he will regret hurting you."

"Well, I like him. I thought he was a model at first, he's got the traditional blond hair and blue eyes of sexytimes."

Francis gave a bark of laughter, startled but happily so. _(Matt might or might not have been more willing to become a bit more forward like Francis, after Francis died. Well, 'died'.)_

"So unprofessional, now! _I like it. _But as lovely as it is to hear about your love life, your work is calling. We can talk through all the details later,_petit."_

Indeed, Yao Wang was glaring at Matt from the kitchen door, mouthing "What are you doing?! Work!"

"Argh, right! Meet you at the park later, sorry!"

Francis just smirked and slapped Matt's arse as Matt ran off to help.

"_Oh,_ _Matthew_. You deserve to be happy, of all people." Francis murmured, unheard.


	5. Francis, you drama queen

It was beginning to get dark by the time Matt got off work, but y'know, it was kinda his own damn fault so he couldn't really complain about doing overtime. Besides, he hadn't exactly been at his best today at work, because of his mind bombarding with the following:

1\. FRANCIS IS ALIVE AND I'M GONNA GO INTERROGATE HIM LATER AT THE PARK HOLY SHIT

and

2\. A CAUSE WORTHY OF FRANCIS, HOT BOOTY

All things considered, these weren't the most conductive thoughts to making sure you remember if table five had wanted dumplings or stir-fry.

Arthur had pursed his lips at him as Matt signed off, but he did pat him on the back! That meant he was forgiven …right?

_Well, he'd have to make it up to Arthur another time_, Matt thought as he quickly slipped his hockey jersey over his ugly off-yellow mustard-accident work polo. (He had a feeling Arthur actually might be colour blind. He'd considered slipping him a pamphlet, except he'd also thought that Arthur might have something wrong with his taste buds before it turned out Arthur simply had rotten taste in food.)

He just hoped Francis hadn't already left by now.

Then he wouldn't be able to contact Francis and they'd be separated again. God, he should've grabbed Francis' number while he had the chance earlier. And wouldn't that be funny, Francis would find, that little Matt who found Francis' amorous antics with the ladies embarrassing would now be the one asking for Francis' number?

Matt could already imagine the wink and smirk combination Francis had perfected being sent his way. Number four, the one Francis used when he thought someone was being adorably dorky. _It has its own charm,_Francis liked say to Matt's sceptical look, because Matt was a judgemental little brat. _Like a baby duck! Or like you!_ He would laugh as he fluffed up Matt's hair.

_Not a duck!_ An itty bitty Matt would pout.

And to that Francis would always go along with him, putting his hands up and reverting to French as he began laughing _oui, oui, bien sûr!_agreeably at Matt's face.

_(Matt's face was not hilarious, thankyouverymuch.)_

Distracted in his own nostalgia as he was, Matt completely missed the sound of footsteps approaching.

"A beautiful sunset in the summer should be enjoyed with another, don't you think?"

It couldn't be helped.

"FRANCIS!" Matt might have squealed, in a sudden fit of excitement, turning and launching himself at Francis.

"_Oof!_ You are not so small and cute anymore, I see!" Francis managed to wheeze out despite Matt's suffocating hug. "I'm glad to see that you are well, Matthew. Big and tall and strong now!_And I'm so proud to hear that you have all the handsome men chasing after you!_" Melodramatic as always, Francis dabbed away an invisible tear, hand clutched over his heart. Drama queen.

Matt laughed anyway. "I've missed you, Papa."

Francis' face faltered a bit. "You shouldn't call me that, any more."

He felt his face freeze as the sudden mood whiplash as he released Francis from his embrace. "Why not? Are you running from the mafia or something and want to keep our connection secret to protect me from evil guys with guns who might want to kidnap me to threaten you?"

Francis blinked. "Ah…no. You still have that funny imagination, I see, petit." Turning serious, Francis tilted Matt's face up slightly to look the older man in the eye. Then he sighed. "This will not be a fun conversation, like I would have preferred for our reunion. Matthew, you know I am not legally your guardian any more, correct?"

"I know. What does that have to do with anything?"

"I gave you up, Matthew. I don't have the right to call myself any papa of yours, any more. I should've been there, I should've made sure that no matter what you would come first."

What?

Matt felt his eyes widen. "Wha-Papa, I never expected you to give up everything for me!"

Francis shook his head. "That's what a good parent should have done. But I was selfish, you know. I bargained you away like one of my possessions, and that was needlessly cruel."

_What?_

"I'm sorry, Matthew."

_WHAT?_

Matt was vaguely aware that he was doing his best to look like he ought to be in Madame Tussaud's _(except, y'know, without the being at all important bit.)_ He liked to think that he was simply in such shock that his brain had gone all wonky, but deep down he knew that he was simply as bad at analogies as Arthur was as cooking.

The Nile wasn't just a river in-

"…Matthew? _Matthew!_"

"You're abandoning me too, Papa?" Matt blurted out without thinking, because it seemed the littlest bit of hurt sent Matt reverting all the way to childhood. Like a kid who just desperately wanted to be loved, except much more pathetic because Matt was a grown-as man.

Of course he regretted his thoughtlessness immediately with the way his words might well have been a physical blow with the way it seemed to hit Francis, who reeled back and crumpled a bit into a nearby park bench in sorrow.

"I- I already _did_." Francis said bitterly, in a rare display of self-hatred. As Matt stood speechless at his former father figure, he wondered _When did this happen? When did Francis stop being invincible in my eyes, when he used to seem so strong?_

_He was always fallible_, he realised suddenly_. I just didn't see it. I didn't want to see it. I wanted to keep that heroic image in my head because I loved my Papa, and didn't want to see that he was flawed. But he's only human, too._

"Now you see, I don't deserve to be called your Papa any more." Francis smiled painfully at Matt. "Besides, you are old enough to decide your own life for yourself. You don't need an old womaniser like me to get in the way!"

"What if I still want you in my life?"

Francis gave a small smirk of weakened humour. "I hardly think you want me getting in the way of your love life, petit. I know I said I couldn't be your Papa anymore, but even though my reputation says I'll fuck anything that moves, that's not true, I won't do incest!"

"_P-PAPA!_" Matt cried, scandalised. "Don't dodge the question!"

This time Francis' laughter was genuine, as he began howling with laughter even as tears began to roll down his cheeks. Matt wasn't sure if he was crying because he was laughing so hard he cried, or if the situation had made him hysterical enough to cry. Maybe a bit of both. Francis always had liked to embarrass Matt because he thought Matt's reactions were hilarious.

(_Again, his face was not hilarious_, Matt thought was worth repeating.)

"I don't have the right to, but I am so, so proud of you, Matthew." Francis wheezed as he began to finally calm down. "You are more mature than I could ever be."

_Francis only thought that because they hadn't yet invented telepathy. That Matt was aware of, in any case. In which case Matt was screwed, because if anyone could see his mind it would be clear he was bonkers and before he knew it he'd be on a one-way trip to the local mental asylum._

Smiling gently at Matt, Francis continued. "I think maybe I should explain more clearly then, since it obviously upsets you. 'Papa' isn't the right word for me any more because we will no longer have a parent and child relationship."

_"Now, that doesn't mean I won't be in your life!"_ Francis hastened to add, seeing Matt open his mouth in predictable protest. "Just that our relationship will have changed to reflect this. I think equals is a better sounding word anyway, no?"

That glimmer of rising hope in Matt's heart was traitorous and should be squashed before it overthrew Matt's internal mind government centred on cynicism and sarcasm. _Emotional attachment was a liability!_It declared.

_…Oh, fuck it. No one tells Matt what to do!_ His mind cried, in a poor mimicry of his idea of 'sassy black woman'.

Matt pounced on Francis in a fierce hug.

"Okay, _Francis_." Matt said quietly, smiling.


	6. Meanwhile, Outside of Matt's Brain

Arthur Kirkland, despite his grumpy exterior, was secretly a giant mother-hen.

If one looked past his appearance, this would in fact be obvious. He'd always wanted a big family to be in charge of. Perpetually single and biologically incapable of having children (due to a dark memory he would only ever refer to as 'the piano incident' and never say anything further about), Arthur had taken to adopting children from foreign countries many years back.

It seemed he wasn't any good at parenting, however, if the depressing number of adopted children he'd had who had run off and declared total independence from him said anything. If pressed, Arthur would admit that he had been a bit authoritarian in his younger years by demanding more than the poor children proved capable of dealing with from him.

He dealt with it. He was English, and stood firmly by the tenant of keeping a stiff upper lip. Mostly by adding alcohol to his tea (because he had to keep up appearances, after all.)

Like he said, he dealt with in. In whatever way he could.

As one of the few of his adopted children left _(not officially…just in his heart, though he'd never admit it)_, Matthew was often of his foremost concern. The poor child had a lot to deal with, so Arthur tried his best to watch out for him.

So when he noticed that over the last two weeks or so a Frenchman seemed to have suddenly appeared in Matthew's life and started following him around, Arthur's protective instincts were instantly roused. He was worried, and the man seemed suspicious. Overly charming and becoming close to Matthew _far_ too rapidly! And to make things worse, Matt's life seemed to have started to revolve around the Frenchman as well!

Arthur was very, very worried. It all screamed serial killer/rapist/stalker/cult member to him. He'd thought Matt had better sense than this.

So Arthur had put his amateur detective skills to the test. He was hardly a professional, but being a huge fan of the Sherlock Holmes novels and various spin-offs had to count for something, right?

He'd looked the man up. Then, he'd made his discovery – 'Jacque-Jean Renaud' was a false identity. Cleverly done as well, he'd give the man that. The man had clearly done this sort of thing before, or had a very professional forger work this all out for him. All the official documents checked out.

But the Frenchman's lecherous tendencies would be what gave the game away. Checking the man's internet history had revealed, amongst all the extremely explicit porn sites, a private message from what seemed to be a jilted ex. He'd felt like a proper detective code-breaking, trying to use his high-school knowledge of French to figure out what in the hell it said_. Laurent, you dog!_ It began. _Or is it Jacque-Jean now? Whatever you are, you are a liar and a coward! Changing your identity just to run away from commitment, really, you disgust me!_

_I bet you don't even remember that you only met me through Marie._ It continued. _Did you forget we were friends? Is this what you do, seduce women just to dump them and run away? Well, too bad for you. I went crying to Marie that the man I wanted to marry had disappeared, and showed her a picture of you. And guess what? She was shocked because she recognised you as 'Sebastien'!_

After that, the message went on and on about the trivial dramas between the two, ending with a _You bastard, I hope your _(private parts, Arthur had tactfully translated) _shrivel up and drop off!_ As amused as Arthur was about the message, it had been the two other names the lady had revealed that had caught his attention. Research into those names turned up previous identities of the man's, with hints of many more identities with less internet history.

He'd felt sick and angry on Matt's behalf.

This was why he'd tracked the man down to a normal-looking apartment (_deliberately so to decrease suspicion_! Arthur thought.)

Arthur was not a stupid man. He'd taken all the necessary precautions (and some unnecessary ones as well.) A message was timed to be sent to the proper authorities if he did not confirm he was safe and well, he'd dug up a black-market protective vest he'd gotten back in his rebellious punk days from the bottom of his wardrobe.

He'd also managed to smuggle in an illegal gun from America. This was going to get him into a lot of trouble if he got caught, but better caught alive by the cops than found dead or worse a few months later at the bottom of the local river.

All in all, he was strongly reminded of his punk days, when he'd been all into that anarchy thing. Although he liked to think himself a proper gentleman now, there would likely always be a bit of him that lived for this sort of thing. He'd even dug up his old leather outfit! (Which still fit, even if it did bulge a bit around the waist, which he stubbornly attributed to the protective vest rather than the thought he might have let himself go.)

Even Matthew wouldn't recognise him in his old kit. Having thought it'd be best if nobody realised it was him giving the perverted Frenchman a piece of his mind, Arthur had given in to nostalgia and gone full-on punk. It was a bit embarrassing, to be all dressed up in in his torn Union Jack t-shirt, leather jacket and trousers and all, but this was for the best, he reminded himself. It could help intimidate the French bastard. It was necessary.

Alright, perhaps it wasn't quite as necessary to raid his office stationary for safety pins to jam into his ears, or reinsert his old facial piercings, or attempt to gel what he could of his short hair into a mini Mohawk (an attempt which failed). But even Arthur could admit that he looked surprisingly good for someone pushing forty once you got him out of his jumpers and cardigans.

And so that was what Francis opened his door to.

"Yes? What is it?" Francis asked politely while notably running his eyes up and down Arthur and looking approving of what he saw.

Arthur narrowed his eyes. _Get straight to the point_, he thought. _Ignore the lech's perverted tendencies_. Reverting to his childhood accent_(Cockney, he was ashamed to say, which he'd successfully overridden with a much more proper sounding Received Pronunciation)_, he spoke, playing it right up. "I've seen yer been 'angin' round Matt. You got one chance to tell the truth, or _else. Wot's yer business wit' him_?" he growled.

Francis blinked. "Pardon?"

Arthur was beginning to get right narked. "You 'eard me. Spit it out. _Wot's yer business wiv' 'im?!_"

"I'm afraid I don't understand- "

Arthur always did have a problem with anger management when he didn't get his way. "Don't understand, _my arse!_" he exploded. "I know you've been hangin' round the poor boy, and he's got enough to deal with without some weirdo like you makin' trouble for 'im!"

The Frenchman looked startled. _"Uh-" _he began.

"_Don't you fuckin' get start'ed, now!_ Don't think you can brush me off all cute like, the way you do with your ex-girlfriends!" He hissed accusingly in what he felt was a menacing way (and not at all like the angry cat it actually sounded like.) "I'm not goin' ta fall fer your lit'el tricks. _So you'd best start talking, you fuck'in' frog."_

The Frenchman just gaped at him for a few seconds. Then: "I have no idea what you just said, but you sound sexy when you're angry."

Arthur punched him right in his pretty French face.

_Well. That was embarrassing for multiple reasons,_ Arthur thought, later. _Should've realised that his English mightn't have been good enough to figure me out._

As a sort of grudging apology he'd helped bandage up the man's face. Though there was little he could do about the man's whining about the resultant broken nose "ruining my beautiful face!"

He wasn't at all sorry about that. _Served him right, the idiot._

Although, as was only right, he did apologise about the whole misunderstanding and finally figured out that the bloke was Francis Bonnefoy, Matt's uncle who'd been falsely accused. He'd called Matthew to confirm the truth, and Matt had laughed his head off for a full minute at the events that had transpired before he confirmed that yes, Francis was his uncle, and that yes, Francis was a good guy at heart.

He'd still glared at the Frenchman as he threw his phone down in disgust.

So that was how Arthur came to accept Francis' presence in Matt's life, even if he still thought the frog was a right pervy bastard.


	7. Outside of Matt's Brain (Part Deux)

Even Francis admitted to himself he'd never been the best at trying to be a parent. Why did they think giving Francis, of all the people, responsibility over another human being was a good idea? He had loved the boy but god knows Francis had no clue on how to suddenly be a father at first. (Despite his reputation, he'd always been very, very careful. So if little Matthew did somehow have cousins floating around somewhere, Francis was not aware of it.)

_He'd…he'd tried_! Francis had attempted to justify to himself at first. He'd taught Matt French and told him stories and went along with Matt's silly little imagination. When Matt was so small and cute and still a girl in the little dresses and so, so shy, Francis had coaxed him out from hiding behind his polar bear toy and spoke with him. What is your name, little one? He'd said gently, cooing at that sweet little face peeking out from behind fluffy white ears. (He'd known his niece's name, of course, but he wanted to hear it from the child himself.)

Little Matilda had not replied, just blinked those big, soft eyes that looked almost violet in the right light. At the time he had thought it was just the shyness that held the darling back and so he'd been undeterred. _She will be a heartbreaker when she grows up_, he had thought, smiling._Uncle Francis will be chasing away those boys after her before we know it!_

Well, he'd been half-right. Matthew didn't always notice, but Francis had not gotten his infamous romantic reputation for nothing. Such poor self-esteem when boys and girls always liked to make big cow eyes at him! Francis had usually went out of his way to check they were safe for little Matt and more often than not they were more than willing to follow Francis home instead.

_Not good enough, _he would think of those ones. Matthew deserves someone who wants him more than someone who would go for the first stranger who chatted them up.

It was not entirely unselfish of him, but this was a good arrangement for everyone, no?

Little one, Francis had begun again in French. My name is Francis. I'm your uncle, did you know?

He had gazed expectantly at Matilda, and then politeness drilled in from birth must have finally overcame any reluctance born of shyness.

"I'm sorry, I don't understand what you're saying." That little mouth had admitted, and Francis was shocked. _How could this beeeeee?_ He wailed internally. _Yes, the child had been born and raised in Canada – but, but, his mother, Francis' sister, was a perfectly good Frenchwoman! She should have taught him their beautiful language even if the child was forced to speak English in public. He had not expected too much given an upbringing in a primarily English speaking province – but to not even understand French meant that his sister had not been telling bedtime stories in French at home, or singing French lullabies to him. Had she completely abandoned the boy's heritage?_

_No! This would not do_! He had decided on, firmly. His English, admittedly, was not that good because he hadn't seen the point of learning the language properly in school. Why should he need to? He had never planned on leaving France back then. Back then he had thought that if Anglophones were going to be arrogant enough to come to France without knowing a word of French, why should he have to make the effort to learn good English for their laziness?

He had learnt some, admittedly. _He might find the monolingual English speakers annoying at times, but that didn't matter so much if you could shut them up in bed! _He had smirked. _Seducing them with only body language was possible, but more effort than it was worth._

And so he had only learn enough English to pass by in a basic conversation. (This was not counting the necessary amounts he had learnt to send people to his bed, but he'd learn that in as many languages as he could. _What? He was not ashamed of his sexuality or libido. It was all perfectly natural, and he was not a prude like the Americans.)_

Not good (and probably not appropriate) enough for him to be able to talk with little Matilda properly. "Hello, little one," he had attempted again. "My name is Francis. I'm you…" he fumbled for the words. "Your…mama's…sister?" Francis tried.

Matilda had giggled. "Are you a girl?"

_Best not to mention the crossdressing, his sister would murder him in his sleep. She wasn't quite as open in her views as he was, and she liked to physically try and prevent him from being able to ever have children. _Francis smiled despite himself. "Ah…no. I am a man."

"Oh. So you're my uncle?"

It sounded like the right word. "Yes, uncle. Last time I saw you, you are only a little baby!"

Matilda's eyes had widened to a huge degree. Francis wondered how wide was safe before the little one's eyes fell out completely. "Really? Wow. I don't remember being that small. How come I never met you afterwards?"

Ah, yes. These last few years he'd been finishing his degree in the arts and hadn't really found the time to fly over to Canada to visit his sister's family. Then there was Jeanne, his lovely Jeanne, but she'd died and he'd sought the comfort of men for a while because feminine curves just reminded him of a girl who'd martyred herself because her cause always came first _(and never, ever Francis.)_

_I may be a little disillusioned._

He said instead: "I was home in France, finishing school."

"School?! But you're so old-!" The child said, startled, before covering her mouth in embarrassment at how rude that was.

Francis laughed somewhat bitterly, leaning back. "I'm only twenty-four, little one. I mean university, school for adults. I am nineteen when my sister has you, and I thought that I could make a difference in France." _And fuck what his sister thinks, she's barely called him in the last five years and only to tell him how she disapproves of his ways._ So he continued: "And me and my…" girlfriend, lover, fiancée? "…Friend," he finished lamely, "We are angry at the injustice in the world and we are fighting in France for what we think is right. But we are getting arrested and my friend is getting executed by the government for treason."

Those almost-violet eyes were alarmed but not traumatised, but it finally seems to have vanished those reservations about speaking with Francis. "That's terrible! Isn't there anything you can do to save your friend?"

_Did he say it wrong? It's easy to get words mixed up. What was past tense in English, again?_ He shook his head. "No, she is already dead. But Uncle Francis is not a criminal, so they let me go."

Putting on his most cheerful face for his niece's sake, he added: "But I am over it now. She is years gone. And now I am in Canada to see a cute girl like you!"

Matilda was entirely unconvinced. _Such a perceptive child, _he thought, regretfully.

"You're still sad." She whispered.

He had tensed. Francis couldn't argue that, so he said nothing. _What can he say to a child who's managed to pierce through to the truth? When so many had taken one look at the way he went straight back to flirting, and smiling and laughing and thought: This is a man who said he wanted to marry her and yet unrepentantly turned away from her memory when her coffin had not even hit the ground?_

He knew the way it looked, but what could he have done? He might be the type to shed tears easily, or become overly emotional over the smallest of things – but nobody truly minded that because of how obvious of a performance it was.

True grief, well.

Seeing a grown man sob and howl and curse everything that had happened and their mother - that sort of thing made people very uncomfortable, and Francis could not deal with that. He prided himself on his social skills, and being able to make entire rooms comfortable with him immediately (even if only comfortable in their knowledge that they could dismiss him as little more than a huge flirt.)

So he'd dealt with it in the only way he knew how and pretended nothing had ever happened, taking comfort and protection in the warm bodies that stood between him and the truth.

_But the child is right, and it has been years._

"…Yes." Francis admitted. "You're correct. But maybe I will tell you the story another time, no?"

Little Matilda inched closer, and Francis mentally pat himself on the back for small victories. "Okay. I'm sorry about your loss."

_What an adorable little girl. How had his confident sister managed to have such a shy little baby?_ he wondered. _Perhaps his brother-in-law had mostly raised her? That would explain why she knew nothing of French._ Do you? he asked in French, half to himself. Do you understand anything of what I'm saying?

Apparently not, from her confused gaze.

"Alright." Francis sighed. "I need to teach you French, because I don't know how I'm going to tell you the story in English…"

Francis' eyes had crinkled in mirth as Matilda perked up.

He'd taught little Matthew well, he was proud to say. _So quick to learn! Such a sweet and polite child!_

That was years and years ago, of course. He'd hoped that Matt had kept it up while he was gone, but with no one else to speak French to since Francis and his sister were gone from his life he would not be surprised if Matt had forgotten everything from disuse.

_C'est la vie_, he thought darkly. _These things happen._

Still, he wondered.

He decided to casually slip into French mid-sentence to see if Matthew would notice.

"Mattheeeeeew!" He called out while Matt is preparing breakfast for them both. (_Pancakes_, he is amused to note. _Just like when he was small!)_"Matthew! Where are the toilets in your apartment?"

From the other room, Matt shouted: "Give me a sec and I'll show you!"

Francis continued, quickly. "I'm surprised you can have a place this big when," - he switched gears mentally, with some difficulty, to French – you're working for that ugly English man who probably doesn't pay you enough.

Francis heard the kitchen fan turn off suddenly, then: "Pa-FRANCIS! That was completely uncalled for!" from a horrified Matthew. "I know you don't like Arthur, but he's been good to me. _I don't believe this."_ Matthew continued angrily as he storms into the living room. It's a striking change from the shrinking violet who would never confront who had wronged him directly. _That didn't mean Matt didn't get his revenge in other ways_, Francis thought, wincing. He was willing to bet Matthew could still be a darling passive-aggressive brat.

"_What's gotten into you?"_ Matthew said, distressed, and Francis couldn't take it anymore. I'm sorry, Matthew, I didn't _mean_ it, I was just testing you! he confessed. I had to know – if you remembered anything of the French I taught you. And I had to know you knew exactly what I was saying and not making a good guess.

Matthew calmed down only slightly. And you had to do it by insulting me and Arthur?

And god, he knew he was supposed to be feeling guilty and apologetic but he couldn't help but feel thrilled and triumphant that Matthew has kept something of Francis even after all these years. Even if Matthew's accent was now that of Canadian French instead of the Parisian he'd taught Matt and sounded kind of funny.

I'm sorry? I'm glad he did look after you after I left, even if I dislike him. Though you must admit his eyebrows are like giant caterpillars crawling all over his face-

Matt gave him a look.

What? Do you want me to lie and say they don't?

Francis saw rather than heard the quiet sigh. "I guess that's as good as I'll get from you. And," Matt continued, snorting, with the air of one teasing a good friend, "he _does_ kinda look like caterpillars are eating his face."

When Francis beamed unrepentantly, Matt rolled his eyes. "P- Francis, I swear I'll never understand you. You made me interrupt pancakes for this? Sacrilege!" He cried, in mock affront. "Shoo! Out with you, blasphemous creature which have dareth interrupt the sacred ritual of pancake-making!"

Matt pouted as Francis laughed so hard he knocked over Matt's CD collection.


	8. Matthew has Issues Emphasis Capital

Sometimes Matt wondered how the hell he even made it to this age. He wasn't talking about the multiple suicide attempts, or the times he got mugged or bashed up, or the particular aggressive anti-homosexual protester who'd tried to stake him with their uncreative 'GOD HATES FAGS' sign.

Since Matt had always had a very dark sense of humour, he'd thought he should at least be polite and given the guy suggestions. Because if he was gonna deal with this bullshit, they should at least have put some effort into these things. Sure, not everybody could rock that Leonardo da Vinci shit, but he knew toddlers who could decorate better than that.

Just sayin', a little paint and glitter could do wonders.

But that was beside the point.

Matt still thought it was a miracle he'd managed to get this far. Between his…alternative… lifestyle, wimpy 'beat me up I'm a nerd no one cares about' body and his general incompetence at doing anything right, he was somewhat shocked his heart hadn't ceased beating out of sheer pity for his patheticness. _Matt-Matt!_ It would scold. _Hell are you doing wit' yo life?!_

He wasn't quite sure why it called him that. He was more focussed on the fact that he assigned personalities to his body parts and wondering if he should just walk to the local mental asylum (very convenient that it was located so closed to the prison and Matt's place) and hand himself in for the good of society.

_Are you even listenin', Matt-Matt? _His heart demanded._ Look here, you lazy ass. All I be wantin' is some good work these days. Not all this wallowin' around in bed like yo legs have gone on strike!_

Why did his heart have an accent?

_Stop wit' that self-pitying shit! Give me a good rhythm pumpin', maybe hunt down that nice piece of ass you were ooglin' a while back. Why haven't you given him a call?_

"Because I _lost his number!_" Matt whined pathetically, whimpering.

And wasn't that the truth.

All his excitement and hope (_and potential booty_, his lower regions whispered slyly even as Matt shut it down ruthlessly) had flown out the window and been hit by a car. Because Matt was such a terrible excuse for a human being that he'd managed to lose the one thing he'd wanted.

_Idiot!_ The entirety of his body whispered in synchronisation.

…He really should remember to take his pills.

Matt felt terrible for ignoring all his calls and texts. He was being an ass. Deliberately difficult. Horribly impossible to deal with. Shirking his duties to others, and for what? Because he couldn't even find the energy to get out of bed?

Francis had been hovering around him these last few weeks (and Arthur had joined in, even as the two glared daggers at each other.) _Witness the downfall of the most ungrateful brat in the world!_ He thought.

He'd gotten Arthur and Francis oh so worried, and for what?

Little ol' Matt?

_Beep beep._

He knew what he was doing to himself, and couldn't find it in himself to care.

_Let them hate me,_ he thought.

They couldn't hate him as much as he hated himself right now. How pathetic was he? How pathetic was he that he finally had my binder and everything and his goddamn uncle had risen from the dead like the fabulous drag queen he was (rising up from the stage with a bang) and he still wasn't happy?

He cocooned himself under his blankets. It was warm and safe and he'd suffocate down here and this time he wouldn't give a damn.

Maybe she should grab a permanent marker and write his grave message on his maple-leaf covers.

He actually thought seriously about what he should write, and if that wasn't an indicator of his deteriorating mental health nothing else was.

_Here lies Matt, he is dead,_

_Died because he wouldn't get out of bed._

There was a reason why Matt had dropped English literature.

Matt rolled over unintentionally onto his phone.

"_You have 15 missed calls, 34 new messages and 7 voicemails."_ His phone reported.

"Shrtdup." Matt groaned muffledly into his pillow.

"_Matthew!"_ Francis' voice cries suddenly from underneath him. Matthew startled, falling off his bed and knocking his lampshade onto the floor, breaking the bulb.

Well. There goes his best friend.

"Matthew, are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Francis –"

"I haven't heard from you in the week or so!" Francis' voice interrupted without any indication he'd heard Matthew. _Oh._ _He'd been replying to a voicemail._

His body was a choir. _Idiooooooooot!_ They sung to him. They'd already gotten different harmonising and shit done.

_Yeaaaah. _His prescription was out, but Matt couldn't bare the idea of leaving his bed let alone going to the doctor's office. He felt so tired, and weak, and shaky -

"I even swallowed my pride and spoke to that Arthur man! That silly Englishman! And he didn't even bother gloating in my face because he was so worried about you too. So we're coming over to find you, you hear me?"

They were? They'd managed to put aside their differences for him?

"And you know we don't get along well, but we've made a temporary truce. So you better be okay, Matthew!" Francis scolded as he babbled, though hints of secret fears bled through. In the background now that he bothered to listen properly Matt could hear the sounds of a car engine and Arthur going "I don't think he's listening to your messages, Francis. I told you, he's probably just lost his phone again."

"Then why would his phone still have battery?! You even said he's not been turning up to work!" Francis said, unusually agitated. "What if-!"

"He's. Probably. Just. Sick." Arthur gritted out. "There's no use worrying your pretty little head until we actually see there's something to worry about. So do shut up." He said, exasperated and on edge whilst hiding his own hint of fear in his voice.

"Call back, Matthew," was all Francis said before the voicemail ended.

Matthew stared up at his ceiling before he turned his phone off. God, he was a dick. And he didn't actually have a dick, so the magical ability for his body to compensate for such was stunning. _Thank you, Brain, _he whispered sarcastically.

_Don't be a smartarse, _his brain replied.

.

..

…

He should call them before they came to get his ungrateful ass.

_So why couldn't he summon the energy to do something so little?_

.

He closed his eyes.


	9. The Troll Awakens

It was warm out.

Matt was a guy used to cold Canadian weather almost all year round. When it was warm he immediately opened all the windows and breaks out the sunscreen from its dusty grave of a drawer. He burnt like those bigots actually have powers and had brought hellfire down on him.

This time though, he was only conscious of a pleasant summer warmth he only half-remembers from his childhood.

It only made sense that he'd be in his childhood home, then. Bright and cozy and safe. It's been years and years since he's stepped foot in this house (and longer since he was welcome) but he's never quite been able to forget.

The kitchen is the same as ever. The cat clock on the wall hasn't worked since he was seven, but mom had kept it since Matt had decorated it himself with bear stickers.

It was still there, for some reason. Matt just licked his icecream (his childhood favourite, vanilla slavered in as much maple syrup as his mom would let him get away with) and continued on.

Of course he found himself in front of his old bedroom. Embarrassingly, the 'KEEP OUT! POLAR BEARS INSIDE!' handwritten sign was still there on the door that he had written (along with Kumajiro back when he'd thought the polar bear toy was actually real and could talk to him.)

Inside, things weren't quite as he remembered, but somehow it didn't feel wrong. His polar bear obsession back then was still evident, and the inside of the third drawer down in the cabinet was still slightly sticky from his smuggled maple syrup stash.

Just-

Something was _off._

Something was different, he just didn't know what.

Then:

"Matt!" His mom shouted like she always had when he was in trouble. "Come here! Have you been sneaking maple syrup again? We can't already be out, I bought some just yesterday!"

"Coming, mom!" Matt shouted right back. (Okay, maybe it wasn't quite what normal people would call a shout. Matt's normal speaking voice had always been barely above whisper level.)

Then Matt found himself in front of his mom, and despite the fact he was a full grown adult now he still cowered in front of her glare the same as he always had as a kid.

Man, his mom could be scary.

"…Sorry, mom." He whispered, even tearing up a little. Which was _weird_. Really weird. Because even if she could be strict her scolding had never ever made him cry before, so why now?

Predictably, her eyes had softened and her body language completely changed. "Oh, no, no, no, sweetheart, don't cry! I didn't mean it, why are you crying?" She demanded. "Is something going on? Are you getting bullied again? Because I will make that no good principal wish he was never born, no one hurts my baby boy-"

…Oh.

Oh.

_Oh._

_I'm dreaming._

He gave out a bitter laugh, surprising his dream-mother as he ignored her words.

Because the only time his mother would be able to accept his life choices was when he was fucking dreaming. _That would be right, wouldn't it._

_It actually was sort of pathetic in a twisted sort of way,_ he thought. Because despite it all, he had still trusted the dream form of his mom. Dream-mom was warmth and comfort and protection.

And yet…

_How could I still love someone who told me I was no longer their child, that I don't deserve to live and then tried to make sure of it herself?_ He could really be an idiot sometimes, but he generally wasn't this self-destructive nowadays.

And yet he'd still inherently trusted his mom even now.

_And wasn't that more than a little fucked up?_

_I really need to pee_, is the first thing Matt thought. And: _Why the hell am I crying?_

Weird. But his bed was really comfy. It was always nice and warm and snuggly, but it seemed especially good today.

Still. Nature called.

Matt rolled over…and promptly fell off the bed and onto his face.

"Fuck!" he swore as he held his hand up to his face in shock, leaning against the wall for support. His nose felt wet. _The hell was that? I swore I fell asleep on the side of the bed next to the wall. _ And now his hand made him look like he was a serial killer who'd just washed his hands in the victim's blood. _Great. Always a good start to the morning!_

He heard a clunk next door. "Matthew? Are you awake? What was that?"

"I-uh – yeah! I'm okay Francis, just loads of blood!" Matt said, because he was dumb and very disorientated. Had he been drinking? That would explain the dizziness. And the carpet being a different colour than he had been when he went to sleep.

In retrospect, he probably should remember to word things better.

"WHAT?!" Matt heard. And felt. Not just in his head with that pounding headache, but Matt could actually feel the wall vibrate. _Ow, ow, ow._

He whimpered as rapid footsteps approached.

Matthew, what happened? _Why is there blood?_ Are you hurt?! Francis cried out in shock. No, don't move, keep still!

God, he loved that man, but that usually honey smooth voice was a chainsaw right now. A chainsaw intent on splitting Matt's mind in two and feeding the bits to squirrels.

Matt groaned as Francis yelled out to Arthur, who was presumably nearby. _Why was Arthur here?_ he wondered.

"I'm fine, just a blood nose," Matt reassured Francis. "Fell out of bed."

Francis gave a weird strangled sound. "What!? Matthew!"

Matt wiped some of the blood on his sleeve, to Francis' horror. He had a feeling only it was only partly because of the bleeding. Francis had always insisted wiping your nose on your sleeve was a disgusting habit and Matt was probably breaking Francis' disgust-o-meter even now.

"…What the bloody hell happened here?"

…Again, why was Arthur here?

Arthur blinked sleepily in the doorway, hair mussed like he'd just woken up. Maybe he had?

…wait…

If Arthur was here with Francis for some reason…

…Oh, god. Also, shit because he accidentally snorted more blood everywhere, because holyshithe'dthoughtArthurknewbetterthanthat?

_Franciswasn'tashugeapervasbeforebutstill-_

"Here, tissue!" Francis said, urgently pale, shoving one in front of Matt as Arthur swore something about overreacting drama queen frogs.

"_...Oh for god's sake!"_ Arthur muttered. "It's just a blood nose, no need to go around screaming like he needs to go to the ER."

Francis stared defiantly at Arthur. "Do you know how worried I have been?" Francis shouted. "He's not been answering his phone or turning up to work, and then we turn up and his house is so dirty like he's not taking care of himself!"

Matt sunk back into his pillow. Francis didn't need to know that Matt was a bit of a secret slob when he could get away with it.

Francis looked inches away from pulling his hair out as he continued. "And then we find him collapsed in front of his bed so tired looking and weak, and you tell me not to worry about him?!"

Arthur had been staring back, unperturbed. As Francis stood there, breathing heavily, incited, Arthur finally spoke. "I never said that," Arthur replied flatly. "I only meant that running around panicked like a headless chicken isn't helping anything."

Francis had always been very passionate.

"Better than you, standing around like this isn't important!" Francis shouted. He grabbed the front of Arthur's shirt and attempted to pull Arthur closer to him in that dramatic sort of intimidating way Matt was pretty sure Francis had stolen from the movies. Arthur stood steady as he refused to budge, face as stoic as ever even as Francis curled his lip at him in a pure French sneer.

Ah, there was the look Francis was so good at. The one where he looked at something like it was actual shit he'd stepped on, and even Arthur's stiff upper lip thing that he did faltered slightly in the face of the cold rage Francis was in.

"The last time this sort of thing happened," Francis breathed, "was right after his mama disowned him and tried to kill him. And I never want to see this sort of thing again, because then he was one of the worst things I'd even seen." And then, quietly, in a rare shit-your-pants terrifyingly resolute sort of way, he said "_and then he almost killed himself._ So don't tell me I'm overreacting, Arthur."

Holy shit, Matt didn't give Francis enough credit because fucking hell even Matt had almost wet himself at that look and he was the one being defended.

Arthur looked stricken as he opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He swallowed heavily, and Matt was more than a little disturbed to see some attraction in the respect that had popped into Arthur's eyes.

Arthur took a deep breath, then, dissonantly calm _(like he was discussing the weather!_ Matt thought incredulously), said: "I apologise, then."

_What?_

"What?" Francis blinked, as tension drained from the room.

Arthur huffed. "Didn't hear me first time, Frog? I apologise. I apologise for dismissing your feelings as unimportant." He said gruffly, looking away. "I'm not so arrogant that I can't admit it when I'm wrong."

Francis stared, almost disbelieving. _It was probably time to remind the two lovebirds that he was still here, Matt_ thought. _Geez, they get in a fight over me and then forget I'm here. Typical._

"...Um." Matt said, instead of the beautifully eloquent poetry he had composed in his head. (LIEEEES.)

Both heads immediately spun towards him, and he was reminded of those clown heads with the open mouths that turned around at the fair, because the looks on those faces.

He hid a tiny grin behind his hand under the pretence of attempting to stem the bleeding.

Matt held up his other hand to stop the flood of 'Mattareyouokay's and 'OhnoI'msorryMattIdidn'tmeantoforgetyou's.

He smiled his most innocent smile at them and then said: "Can you save your emerging sexual tension for later, because I need another tissue?"

Arthur went the brightest shade of red Matt had seen on a human being as he attempted to splutter a denial, even as Francis fell over laughing.


	10. Plenty of love to go 'round

"Now, remember, you have to take your pills, okay? Going off them cold turkey is-"

Arthur was in mother hen mode again. Francis wasn't much better, but at least he didn't treat Matt like he couldn't fetch his own cup of water.

"_I know._ I'm fine, Arthur. The withdrawal symptoms stopped days ago."

Arthur frowned. "Are you sure-"

"Oh, he's fine now!" Francis snapped, obviously tired of hearing Arthur's fretting. "He just needs to get out a little and enjoy himself!"

"Well, aren't you a giant hypocrite! Who was the one being a drama queen a few days ago, acting like the boy was dying-"

"Don't. fight!"

That shut the both of them up. _"Honestly!_ Both of you, I'm fine now. There's no point in staying here in bed and wasting away."

"See! Matthew agrees-!" Francis cackled triumphantly even as Arthur got that look of murder in his eyes.

_Tabernak, they could be such children._ "Francis, don't wind Arthur up, you're _both_ as bad as each other!" He ignored twin sounds of protest. "Look, thank you for taking care of me, but I'm alright now. And I should let you have your bed back Arthur, thank you for letting me stay under your roof."

Arthur coughed and looked away, embarrassed. "Not a problem, Matthew, you're welcome here any time. Stay as long as you like."

He rolled his eyes. For all Arthur's posturing about being an unfettered English gentleman who had no need for such silly emotions as being touched _('Of course not, it's unsightly!'),_ it was clear as day that Arthur was the sort of idiot who only repressed and hid them under the little façade he had going.

Arthur was damn well touched by Matt's thanks, and he'd be damned if the stubborn man would ever admit it.

Francis popped up besides Matt like a particularly sneaky meerkat. _His father figures would be the death of him_, Matt swore.

"Then…you should come out to the clubs with me, Matthew!" Francis urged, clearly intent on the idea now that it was in his head. "No more moping about here with this old man-" _("Oi! I'm actually younger than you, you twat!") _"-But come have fun with me and a few friends at my friend's club. You'll like it, I promise, it's an LGBBQ club, you can pick up a sexy man of your own, no?"

Matt gave a very manly giggle. Arthur snorted, but seemed to be reassured as he left them to their own devices (Arthur had very little tolerance for Francis' flirtatious ways). _Shuddup, he was super manly._ Matt couldn't see Arthur at a club, anyway. He seemed like the kind of guy to be suspicious of anyone in leather as 'one of those young delinquent punk chavs' or whatever it was he called them.

"…Francis, I don't think it's LGBBQ, I'm pretty sure gay and lesbian barbeque won't be involved." Matt said, smiling.

Francis blinked, and gave a classic French shrug. "LGBBQ, LGBQQ, you know what I mean, no? Too complicated!" Francis complained even as he grinned at Matt's laughter. "They keep changing it, I think they're only doing it confuse me!"

"I'm pretty sure it's just because they want to be inclusive, Francis." Matt said, smothering his stupidly big smile.

"Anyway, you should come, Matthew, it will be good for you!" Francis proclaimed, waggling his eyebrows in a way that had always made Matt laugh.

The manipulative bastard. He knew Matt couldn't say no when he made Matt laugh like that. And Francis' stupid pout was SUPER EFFECTIVE and MATT took 9999 damage to his little black heart.

_MATT was defeated! MATT was also a giant dorky idiot who always managed to get himself into these sorts of things_!

"…Fine-"

Matt regretted everything at the look in Francis' eyes.

Francis had questionable taste in friends.

Antonio 'Toni' Carriedo seemed the most normal of them, if a bit…ditzy? Okay, that was a bit mean. The Spaniard was a friendly as a Labrador. (Matt stubbornly refused to think of another guy he'd met who'd also reminded him of a friendly puppy.)

Then other one, well. Matt wasn't sure if that one the youngest looking sixty year old he'd ever seen or just a crazy young guy who wanted to look older by dying his hair silver to offset his immaturity. Because the way he was cackling evilly with that German accent about how awesome he was for all to hear...wasn't quite…normal. _Although Matt wasn't exactly one to judge people on how normal they were._

And then there was the serious blond businessman in the suit, who Matt had been confused to see. With his hair slicked back like that and the tasteful clothes, he just didn't seem like the type to be one of Francis' friends.

Unless the guy was a rich businessman client.

Okay, Francis had never actually said anything about whether he did that sort of thing, but it wasn't like Francis disliked money or sex. In which case, _ew, papa, you may not actually be my papa, but I don't need to meet your clients this better not be some weird misguided orgy-_

"Hey, West, you showed up!" The silver haired guy suddenly shouted as he noticed the blond businessman.

"Gilbert." The blond _(Was that another german accent?)_ businessman stated, addressing the weird maybe old (?) guy. "Why have you brought me to meet your friends?"

Gilbert, the weird maybe-old-guy gave the weirdest laugh Matt had ever heard. "Kesesesesese! Because Francis thinks he needs to help his nephew get laid-"

Even the tips of Matt's ears flushed scarlet as Gilbert flashed a knowing smirk his way.

"-And I thought, why not bring you along too? Cuz you may be my little brother, but I still don't know how you managed to miss the lady-killing and man-eating genes in our blood."

"Gilbert!" Mr Businessman protested, looking back and forth between Matt staring at them and Gilbert who seemed to take pride in getting a rise out the guy. The poor guy seemed as embarrassed as Matt felt. With a brother like that, no wonder.

Mr Businessman gave a long suffering sigh, ignoring his brother as he strode towards Matt.

"I-I'm sorry!" Matt rushed to say. "I didn't mean to listen in on you, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be so rude!"

Mr Businessman blinked, but gave a tiny yet genuine smile. "Ah," he said. "It's my brother's fault for being so loud and using English. If he had truly meant to keep our conversation private, he would have used German. He only likes to do it to embarrass me."

"O-oh, I see." _Francis did the same thing. No wonder they were friends._ "Sorry, I didn't quite catch your name. West, was it?"

The other blond shook his head. "Oh, no. My brother just likes to call me that. Ludwig Beilschmidt, and my older brother is Gilbert Beilschmidt."

"Oh, uh, Matthew Williams, Matt for short." Matt must have looked surprised, because Ludwig took one look at his face and continued. "Yes, he does act like a child at times, doesn't he? Thirty-five and he still doesn't know what to do with his life." Ludwig said disapprovingly.

_Thirty_-five? Matt was only twenty-three.

He had never felt more like a little kid pretending like he knew how to be an adult than now. Like he wasn't meant to be here with the actual adults, and that he'd be discovered as a fraud.

"_Sorry kiddo," they'd say. "It's time to go back to middle school."_

Ludwig seemed pretty perceptive, as he eyed the look on Matt's face. "Are you also worried about going to this club?" he asked, surprisingly concerned.

Go with it.

"Y-yeah, a bit." Matt whispered. "Sorry, it's just, I know Francis and with what I've seen of his friends I think I probably should be worried about the sort of things they have planned for us. No offense to your brother!" he added.

Ludwig looked thoughtful. "Yes, they do seem the type, that is true. But I don't think you have cause to worry, Matthew. Despite their antics, they know when to stop and what is too much. They are good people at heart."

Well. That was true enough of Francis. He'd just have to take the guy's word.

…_Was that a black limo pulling up beside them? Where the hell did the-_

No, Matt really didn't want to know.

"Kesesesese! West, are you done boring Francis' brat? We gotta go!" Gilbert shouted over the blaring rock music from the passenger seat as he got out to meet them.

Ludwig immediately pursed his lips and Matt felt a need to defend the guy who'd been nothing but polite to him. _Passive-aggressive dial to 11!_

"Well, _excuse us._ Sorry to keep you waiting, but me and Ludwig were having a nice chat together. He seems like such a nice guy, I'm surprised to see how different you guys are." Matt commented sweetly.

Gilbert blinked, hesitant, like he was unsure of whether Matt actually meant to insult him. "Er- apology accepted, I guess?" he muttered, rubbing the back of his head sheepishly. "Oh, yeah! The Awesome Gilbert, today's chauffeur at your service!" Gilbert said, giving a tiny theatrical bow as he winked, holding his hand out for Matt to shake.

Matt considered keeping up the passive-aggressive thing but there was a reason he'd always been called the peacekeeper of the family. That, and the guy just seemed genuine.

Matt sighed internally.

He took the guy's hand even as he shook his head, smiling. "Matt. Matthew Williams."

Gilbert leapt up and opened the limo door for them in a single fluid movement. "Kesesesesese! Well, little birdy, I can tell we're going to be good friends!

_What had he gotten himself into? _Matt wondered as he followed Ludwig into the back.

"You didn't have to do that earlier, but thank you."

_Do what?_ Matt blinked confusedly at the quieter German man as they exited the limo.

Seeing Matt's confusion, Ludwig clarified. "There was no need to defend me from my brother's comments, but it was appreciated, nevertheless."

"Oh!" Matt blushed. "He was being rude to you when you've been nothing but polite. I'd do the same for all my friends."

Ludwig seemed a little startled. "…Friends?"

Oh. That was a little embarrassing. "S-sorry, that was a bit presumptuous of me."

"Ah!-No, I only meant to say I was surprised. I'm not a very outgoing person, so forgive me if I seem unused to, er, this."

He hadn't expected the professional looking stoic businessman to be the shy type, but Matt could work with that. Matt had been known as a shrinking violet himself when he was a kid, and he still was at times. He smiled at the taller man. "You and me both," Matt told him self-deprecatingly.

…FRANCIS WAS A GODDAMN TRAITOR.

He'd left Matt at the bar to drink with Antonio as he went to chat up the owner or something. He hadn't really been able to hear Francis over the music. And poor Ludwig had been dragged off to who knows where by his brother.

_Goodbye, Ludwig._ Matt thought darkly. _I barely knew you._

And while Antonio was a nice enough guy, he was also clearly staring at the cute twins on stage. Matt supposed they were pretty enough, but he'd heard them talking between themselves during a short break and one was swearing every other word and threatening violence on the next man to look at her. The other just made a strange "Veeeeeee!~" noise.

Yeah, not going to happen. With his luck they'd be a tag team of serial killers.

He barely noticed the burly looking man who slid up onto the stool next to him, with his…partner. Well, it was an LGBTQI+ club. It wasn't good to make assumptions. Still, whatever that person identified as with those curls made them look like a little lamb. So that was pretty damn cute.

Mr Muscles next to him glanced his way, eyes widening in recognition. "Hey, you're that Matt fellow, aren'tcha?" the guy noted with one of the strongest Australian accents Matt had ever heard. "Nice to finally meet ya."

…Matt was pretty sure he'd remember if he'd met the giant bear of an Australian before. Or the lamb-like cutie ordering drinks for them. "I'm sorry, do I know you?"

The bloke wrinkled up his nose in confusion before finally swearing about some "pommy bastard!" "Sorry, can't believe the old man. He tells us about you all the time, all 'I wish you'd be more well-mannered' and shit. Like he can talk, the fucking hypocrite! What, are we too shameful to brag about to others?" he complained.

…_Wha-?_

"…I have no idea what you're talking about," Matt admitted, baffled.

The man seemed to deflate, swearing up a storm. "Can't fuckin' believe it. Artie never told you about us?"

"…Artie?"

"Got my work cut out for me, do I?" Mr Muscles muttered. "Y'know, Artie. Arthur. Arthur Motherfucking doesn't tell people that his own goddamn kids exist Kirkland."

_Wait, Arthur had kids?_

"Wait, Arthur's not married and I didn't think he was the type to have kids out of wedlock?"

The Australian actually laughed in Matt's face. "Oh, you'd be surprised, then!" he grinned wickedly. "Got photo evidence to prove it. He pretends to be all stuffy, but he was just as wild as I am as a kid."

Matt might or might not be gaping, trying to picture it. "So you're a…?" He began, trying to figure out a way to word what he was thinking politely.

"Bastard son? Naaaaah, though he calls me a bastard all the time. We're adopted, me and the sheep-shagger." The guy said, pointing at his fluffy haired partner.

The person _(wait, did that mean they were siblings? They fought like a married couple when they'd come in…) _glared at the Australian. "I thunk you're mistaking me for yourself."

What the _hell _kind of accent was that? South African? Some strange unique Australian accent only found in the most isolated parts of the Australian outback?

"Are you both Australian, then?" Matt commented innocently.

From the way Mr Muscles ducked and the fluffy haired cutie hurtled towards him with the fury of a herd of a thousand angry sheep, Matt would guess no.

_ABORT MISSION IMMEDIATELY_ his brain screamed.

This was why Matt never went to clubs. Even the sweet innocent looking ones tended to bruise.

"Sorry about det," evil fluffy cutie had said sheepishly. "He knows it drives me up the wall when people mistake me for an Aussie and I thought he'd put you up to this."

The Australian (and the New Zealander, it had turned out to be) had apologised profusely, but Matt had waved them off to track down that goddamn traitor Francis who'd put Matt into this position in the first place. Probably back with the rest of the group by now.

They were all in front of the twins, of course. Even Ludwig, surprisingly, though he was really very red when the girls hadn't really even done anything more provocative than dance.

"I think I'm in love!" Antonio sighed blissfully. "The feisty one keeps giving looks of love only to me!"

Francis snorted derisively. "Toni, she is glaring at you, not giving you 'looks of love."

"I think you should go for her, Toni! I mean, you're _almost_ as awesome as I am. I bet you could sweep her off her feet if you just tried."

"You think? I-"

"Gogogo!" Francis said suddenly. "They're taking a break, catch her now!"

Matthew really, really didn't want to know why the group were suddenly intensely focused on shoving Antonio towards one of the dancers. He curled in a fetal position up in the empty corner seat next to Francis. Francis didn't seem to notice.

Goddammit. Matt knew the man tried, but sometimes Matt really hated him.

Oh, look, now Antonio really was approaching one of the dancers. And… Ludwig seemed to be eyeing the other dancer nervously. Huh. Well, good for him. Hopefully they really weren't tag team serial killers intent on making wurst of the poor man. And…whatever famous Spanish dish they were planning to turn Antonio into. Paella? That was a thing, right?

Annnnddddd now Antonio had a black eye. Matt would wonder what he'd said to the angry looking dancer shouting at him in Italian, but he had a feeling that the girl was like that already with how she'd been acting earlier.

He stole a sip of Francis' beer since Francis and Gilbert had both immediately run off to hold off the furious Italian spitting insults at Antonio.

Okay, at least Francis had been right about one thing. This night had been exciting, if not quite in the way Matt would have liked.

As Matt finished off Francis' beer _(all my myselfffffff _he sang quietly in his head) Francis eventually came back to check on him.

"Matthew, I'm sorry, I need to drive Toni home since he got a little beat up earlier."

"I saw."

Francis grimaced. "Good thing his modelling contract's over. Will you be okay to get home?"

Matt rolled his eyes. "Yess papa." He slurred.

Francis paused, frowning. "How drunk are you?"

"…Uhhh…drunky drunk? I did drink your beer. Sorry. Not like a skunk. I'm not a skunk. I'm a real boy."

Francis took a very deep breath in. Like he was going for a dive. But that was stupid, there wasn't any pool of water large enough for him to dive into close by. Though maybe if they got all the alcohol?

He vaguely noted the fact that he was being passed off to a pretty lady who looked like she worked there. "I'll be back to collect you, so be good, okay?" disembodied Francis voice said. "Elizabeta, don't you dare take advantage and take photos."

Roderich stared at the young blond man Elizabeta was carrying into the office, bridal style. Their joint owned club had just closed up, so all customers should have been kicked out by now. "Please don't tell me you've drugged a random man off the floor to have your way with him."

Elizabeta glared at her ex-husband (and still best friend, despite everything.) "I did not! Francis asked me to look after the little guy. I think they're related, so Francis would kill me, anyway."

He raised an eyebrow as he sat down at the piano at the end of the room. "Are you saying that if he weren't, you would have?"

"Don't twist my words around, Roderich." She muttered, annoyed, as she gently slid the guy (barely more than a boy, and light as a feather!) onto their sofa. "What are you doing playing now? You'll wake the poor guy!"

"So? So what if I wake him? He is none of my concern."

"Don't be inconsiderate, Roderich."

"In any case, I was only planning on playing a lullaby."

She narrowed her eyes at him, watching his fingers begin to dance over the keys.

Back straight and stiff as a rod, the supposed 'lullaby' turning jerkier than it was supposed to be, Elizabeta sighed at him.

He heard only a slight rustle behind him as she approached, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. "You're so silly, Roderich."

He frowned, not missing a note. "How so?"

She tilted her head into resting on his shoulder. "You're upset. You always play more stiffly when you're angry. I thought it was just a simple lullaby you were supposed to be playing, not Chopin?"

He hadn't noticed, which spoke of how distracted he was by her. "Perhaps." He admitted, even if he eased back into the lullaby he had intended to play.

Roderich could feel her turning her head towards him sharply. "Perhaps? No. Maybe the difference isn't noticeable to anyone else who just sees a brilliant pianist playing no matter what, but I know you. You're upset. Tell me."

His notes grew softer and more fluid. "I missed you. I know marriage would never have worked out for us," he added, pre-empting Elizabeta's reply. "But I can't help but feel jealous whenever I see you with someone else."

She pulled away. "You know I'll love you no matter who else I'll be with. But I can't- I don't want to be tied down anymore."

"I know."

He heard her moving around behind him, but didn't look up from his playing.

"Roderich," she said sadly. "I'm sorry. You've been so understanding."

Roderich's expression was just as serene as it had always been when he played. "It would have been hypocritical of me otherwise." He said, softly. "You were just as understanding when I told you I was a swinger. I remember you found it strange that I wanted to be in a committed emotional relationship with you while having sexual relations with other people."

She smiled wistfully, though Roderich was concentrated on his piano and didn't see. "Oh, I couldn't help that. For all people think that polyamory and swinging are the same thing, they're different enough that it was hard for me to truly understand."

Elizabeta swung herself unto the top of his piano before she continued. "And then you wanted a closed relationship, and how could I keep my love exclusive to only those I'm in a relationship in right now? It's not like I have a limited amount of love or that if I love someone else I would love you any less." She huffed out a sad noise. "But that wouldn't have been fair to you or me. I can't keep myself from loving people, but that would have only hurt you."

"I know, Elizabeta. You've explained your polygamy to me before."

"That's not the point I was trying to make. It's just when you look all sad like that I have to remind you or you'll start to blame yourself or something stupid like that."

He looked upwards at her with the intention of glaring at her and protesting that it wasn't stupid, but…

He stopped playing immediately.

"Elizabeta."

"Yeah?"

"Are you _naked? _On my_ piano?"_

She stretched out lazily and cat-like before striking a pose. "Isn't it obvious?"

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "_Why_ are you naked on my piano?"

"...Because I look super-hot like this."

"Elizabeta…"

She propped her head up onto her hand. "Am I not allowed to miss you, too?"

If Matt hadn't been sleeping like the dead he might have wondered why that fluent piano playing had stopped suddenly and been replaced with the dissonant sound of random keys accidentally being pressed.

_As it was, he didn't hear a __**thing.**_


End file.
